Tuesday, August 13. 2013

I feel like I just kind of left you hanging there, and I'm sorry for that. I got caught up in the whirlwind of arrival and exploration and the sheer joy of solid ground under my feet, and I forgot to mention that very important fact: we are in the Congo!

While I know enough by now to know that first impressions aren't everything, that the heart of a place beats so much deeper than what I can touch on the surface, I always like to stop at the beginning of a new place, to look around and catalogue all the things I'm experiencing for the first time.

This is the first time in the history of the organization that Mercy Ships has sailed into a port in Central Africa, and the feeling of newness is palpable around here. It helps, I think, that there are some startling differences between Pointe-Noire and any other city I've docked in.

The first of those differences hit us when we walked out onto Deck Seven to join the crowd at the railings while we approached the dock. Or, rather, it didn't hit us. We were anticipating the moist, muggy air and the stifling heat that feels so synonymous with Field Service, but instead we were greeted by a cool breeze and enjoyed all the arrival festivities without breaking a sweat. (If you can explain to me how the country that's directly on the Equator is the one that doesn't make me feel like I'm living in a sauna, you're a better man than me.)

The coolness in the air has lent a surreal feeling to the past few days; it almost doesn't seem like we're in Africa, a feeling that's only compounded when we walk into town. Sure, we're scuffing through piles of sand and dirt, but the taxis that pass are all painted the same way and some of them even have power windows. There's a train station and a working railway line. There are posh cafes and high-end fashion stores, and it's clear from the get-go that we're not in Kansas anymore, Toto.

And as much as we enjoyed sitting in one of those cafes with hot chocolate and a croissant on Saturday, it was almost a relief to find ourselves in the crush of the market on Sunday morning, surrounded by vendors selling anything you could possibly want for a good good price; it felt much more like home in a lot of ways.

Little by little though, as the shock of the newness wears off, I'm starting to see the rough edges under the fancier veneer here. (And please, you have to realize that what I'm calling 'fancy' is based on a scale of one to ten with Liberia being one and, up until now, Benin being ten; Congo would probably be a real shock to someone who hasn't spent time in this part of the world.) There are sidewalks, yes, but there are also open sewers. There's a supermarket that would rival anything you could find in the States, and there's a woman on the street outside begging you to buy an avocado from the little bag she's holding.

The divide seems vast here, and yet again I'm left wondering where exactly I fit into this picture. And then I walk back to the ship and see the flyers plastered on the wall of the warehouse across from the gangway, the same ones that have gone out throughout the whole country. Operation Gratuite: Free Surgery, offered to as many as we possibly can over the next ten months.

In just two weeks, they will come, and along with most of the crew I'll be there at Screening to help choose the ones who will receive an appointment card.

That's where I fit. In that impossible place between hope and heartbreak, shoulder to shoulder with people from around the world who have been called to pour out their hearts into this country.

Tuesday, October 30. 2012

As of Saturday night, we are back on board our floating home, and the transition into our new life has begun.

Zoe was amazing during a long twenty-nine hours of travel. I had nightmares for weeks leading up to it, picturing her screaming her head off as we became 'those people' who everyone glared at as they readjusted their beck pillows and tried to fall back asleep after yet another rude awakening. Instead, we were treated to the smiles of fellow travelers who looked down at our alternately sleeping and laughing baby, commenting over and over how good she was.

We checked in at reception and got the keys to our room back while a crowd of friends gathered around the still-smiling newest ship's baby. The receptionist printed out our ID badges and when I looked at mine it all suddenly got real.

PCG - Primary Caregiver

Not Pediatric Ward Nurse or Team Leader. PCG. My sole responsibility is the care of my little supernumerary (Zoe's official on-board title).

We've spent the last couple days unpacking and setting up, finding ways to fit a baby into our tiny little cabin and into our lives here. She's already spent more time in her wrap than in most of her young life so far, and last night she went to her first Youth event, sleeping soundly through most of a very raucous pizza-making extravaganza in the crew galley. (She did wake up for a little while; I think she's getting used to being mobbed every time her eyes are open.)

It's been the whirlwind of catching up with old friends, making new ones and settling back in that invariably accompanies the transition back to ship life, but this time there's a ten-week old baby involved, one who's totally dependent on me to make sure that she's getting what she needs. Last night as we were trying to get that sleepy baby to bed despite noisy neighbours on the other side of the wall, it all came crashing down on me.

This is not going to be easy.

My friends are all nurses. I see them in their blue scrubs, stethoscopes around their necks, and I ask them about their days and I don't know any of the patients they talk about. I'm sitting here in a darkened cabin at eleven in the morning while my baby naps, and I can hear the patients in D Ward below me getting water from the very noisy dispenser and my heart is aching so much that I can hardly stand it.

I love the little one who's starting to stir over there on the bed, but I love the little ones whose cries I can hear through my floor, too. Only I can't get to them. I'm not a part of their lives right now, and it feels like someone is keeping me from my own child.

This transition is not going to be easy. I know it will get better with time. We'll find our routines, Zoe will learn to sleep through the ship noises, and maybe when she's a little older I'll be able to work a shift here and there. Right now, though, it feels like I haven't quite come home yet. It's never felt like that here, and it's strange and a little disorienting.

Tuesday, January 10. 2012

They say that silence is golden, but my mother would beg to differ. She told me a little while ago that people are going to think we're still in Ghana, and since we've actually been back in Togo since Thursday, I guess I do owe you all an update.

Thursday was what will probably my favourite sailing experience of my life, which was one hundred percent due to the fact that it lasted less than twelve hours. I've driven the road between Tema and Lome before, and it only takes a couple of hours. Sailing in a ferry is another matter, and we were told to expect around ten to twelve hours on the water. I had a perfect plan, fully approved by my boss, which involved not setting an alarm, sleeping through the first four hours (except for a few unruly minutes as we first left port) and staying in bed for most of the rest of them. I'm a big fan of a sail that ends before you really have time to realize it's begun.

This is the first time that we've sailed into a port we've been in before, and the feeling of coming home was strong among those of us who were here in 2010. As night fell and we realized that immigrations wasn't going to clear us to leave until morning, we spent the time talking about all the places we're excited to revisit. Unsurprisingly, our favourite restaurants got top billing as the various merits of Akif Burger versus Al Donald's were quietly contested.

Unfortunately, either the HoJ or I has been on call ever since we dropped anchor, so we haven't had much of a chance to head out and enjoy ourselves yet. This week the real work will start up in earnest again as we set about untying and setting up the hospital to get ready for the field service that will begin with screening on the first of February.

Saturday, December 17. 2011

We have arrived safely in Ghana, and I for one am happy to have solid ground under my feet. Which is a little odd, maybe, because I'm still iving on the sea and there's nothing but water under the ship. But that water is still now and the mooring lines are out, so I can finally sleep at night again.

We'll be here for three weeks while the crew gets a break after a long outreach in Sierra Leone. We've already started enjoying what the West African crew (and any of us yovos who've been here before) call the Promised Land. It's wonderful to be in a place where the roads are clear enough that we can drive miles in minutes instead of hours, but it doesn't quite feel like Christmas yet if I'm being honest. I associate Christmas on the ship with Tenerife, with weather chilly enough for a scarf and fruit like pears and strawberries. But this Christmas is going to be an African one, complete with ninety degree weather and mangoes in big plastic buckets in the dining room. It's going to be different.

So much is the same, though. The Christmas season on the ship is steeped in tradition; anyone that knows my family knows our love of traditions. Because the crew comes from so many countries, there are little pieces pulled from all around the world to make up December on the Africa Mercy. We have cookie baking and a European-style Christmas market, complete with gingerbread and homemade snow cones, of course. (It's the closest we're going to get to the real thing!) We have a storytelling night and the Academy students put on a big Christmas musical. (It was last night, and it was amazing. A definite highlight was all the high school girls dressed up like angels and dancing hip hop. Who says that wasn't how they appeared to the shepherds?!) On Christmas Eve we all put an empty shoe outside our doors, and sometime in the night we sneak out to fill the shoes of our friends with little presents. (One of the prerequisites for this activity is feigning blindness if you happen to cross paths with one of the other elves in the middle of the night.) We all roll down to the dining room in our pajamas for Christmas brunch, and it's like being with your entire extended family and then some.

I'm going to enjoy these next few weeks. We have friends to visit here in Ghana and lots of exploring to do in Accra. Posting will probably be light, since the only real work I'm doing is in the office, and I'm pretty sure you don't need to know how the scabies policy is coming along, now do you?

Friday, October 7. 2011

I am home. I've been searching for another word to use over the past couple of days, but that's the only one that comes remotely close to describing what it felt like to run up the gangway on Monday night.

Africa greeted me in style with a sunset that turned the entire world pink while we rode across the bay from the airport to the harbour where the Africa Mercy is docked. I could see her, a little white smudge, getting bigger and bigger as night fell; when we sailed right past, I could pick out the place where my window would be, dark for just a little while longer, amidst the blaze of lights that welcomed me back.

I've spent the last few days getting my bearings again, remembering all the little quirks that make this place better than anything and relearning how to be a nurse on the wards. It turns out that fourteen months away from the desk and a year more away from actual patient care can make you forget a few things. But I've had patient teachers, and after two days of re-orientation I think I'll be able to handle myself on my own again.

I think I realized I was really back just before handover yesterday. I was headed across B Ward to pray with the rest of the nurses when I looked down and saw a little baby, the sister of one of the patients. She sat on the floor, looked up at me and lifted her chubby arms to me. There was no hesitation. I scooped her into my arms and held her while we prayed, her little curly head nestled into my chest as she drifted in and out of sleep. Her brother stood beside me, one arm wrapped around my leg, leaning his head against me, and my heart was full enough to burst.

People keep asking me if it's strange to be back after so long. The only thing strange about this, I think, is how I managed to survive fourteen months without this place. Without the pikins (children) running wild through the halls, without the songs between shifts, raised to Papa God in strong voices by our translators, without those little fuzzy heads tucked in under my chin right where they belong. Jenn was telling me a story earlier about a patient who was on the wards for something like five months earlier this year. She told me how the little girl's grandma tried to thank the nurses with a song, how she burst into tears and could barely get out the words as she thanked them for changing her granddaughter's life.

We looked at each other, smiling, realizing all over again what this ship means. We call out to the hopeless and speak words of life to the dying. We have front-row seats to some of the most incredible transformations of body and spirit. Standing in the gap in a battle against death and pain and rejection, we have somehow been given the task of holding the line.

This is no small task, but I'm not alone. I'm just one of a ship full of people here in Sierra Leone and hundreds more in offices scattered around the world who are living and breathing this same fight, all of us giving everything we have to see Light come to West Africa.

Sunday, February 27. 2011

We´ve arrived safely in Iquitos, Peru after a long night spent curled up in soft chairs at the Lima airport Starbucks. Thank God for the nice people there who let us purchase a few minutes of sleep for nothing more than the price of a frappucino. We stumbled onto the flight this morning, bleary-eyed and not quite ready for the adventure that awaits us.

Ready or not, it has begun.

I´m sitting in an internet cafe somewhere downtown and the sweat is already starting to trickle down my back. This is familiar and comforting, as was the fact that the driver of the mototaxi that brought us here tried his darndest to charge us three times the going rate. I just smiled and let him hose me only slightly, deeming the extra half sole sufficient price for feeling so at home.

We are close to the Amazon River, close enough that everything is green, which provides a beautiful backdrop for the ridiculously bright mototaxis that swarm the streets like rainbow bees. Iquitos is connected to only one other city by road, one much smaller and miles away, and so cars here are almost nonexistant. It´s slightly strange, actually, seeing only mototaxis (same concept as Indian autorickshaws or Thai tuk-tuks, if you have any experience with either) and zemidjahns (although I´m sure they aren´t called that here...) mixed in with the very occasional pickup and minibus.

The sky is blue and the clouds are piled up on the horizon over the palms, reminder that it rains most days for at least a little while. We´re hoping to get back to the base before that happens this afternoon.

The class is diverse enough that I feel almost like being on the ship, since the first couple of questions are from our standard repertoire there. Where are you from? What do you do? Since we´re all here for the same purpose, we can stop there and start to share stories. We´ve got Peruvians and Canadians and Columbians and Americans and Dutchies and even a Kiwi, and I think we´re all going to get along just fine.

Class starts tomorrow with a six AM wake-up call, and I´m itching to get started. I´ve perused the list of readings and books we´ll be studying, and I get this feeling all over again that God´s got something big planned for me during these months.

Photos to follow once I take some. I´ve been so dazed by the unpacking and meeting and getting my bearings that I haven´t yet pulled out my camera.

I plan to remedy that very soon, because this place is beautiful.

(Just as a note: my schedule for the next five months is going to be rather rigorous, and as far as I can tell, the only free time for coming into town will be on the weekends. Expect posting no more than once a week, and I promise I´ll try and make it worth your wait.)

Thursday, February 11. 2010

Yesterday was the first time I sailed into Africa. I've flown in to meet up with the ship for the past two years, going through the rigamarole of airport security and baggage claim, the sticky drive to the port to finally walk up the gangway. Yesterday was different.

As we sailed in to the port, I heard the sound of trumpets, too faint to make out a tune. We passed the familiar canoes, at least one fisherman in each invariably bailing out the water while another stood to wave to the Yovos lined up at the railing. The water was aqua under an overcast sky and the Togolese flag flew proudly from the tugboats.

As we drew closer to the dock, the indistinct sounds from the band took on shape until I could pick out trumpets and trombones and maybe even a tuba. They were waiting for us on the end of the dock, playing African worship songs and drumming until I thought they would break their sticks. The women waved handkerchiefs wildly in the air and everyone was dancing the unashamed dances of the truly joyful.

As we pulled alongside our berth, they walked with us up the dock, shouting and waving and welcoming us to our new home. They joined up with another, much larger group, one with twice the drums and even more dance moves. My shoulders were warm in the sun and I was sweating through my shirt and I couldn't stop dancing with them, my cheeks hurting from the smile I couldn't stop.

Later, much later, when the sun was almost down, the dock was deserted. The drummers had long ago piled into their buses and the marching band had marched off to rest their tired lips. I was waiting in line for dinner when a friend caught my eye. There's a baby on the dock. Needing no further encouragement, I ran out into the sticky air to find Francois.

He's very small, our Francois; he'll be two months old on the nineteenth, and he weighs a little over five pounds. Huddled around him was a much smaller welcoming committee than the one before. No drums, no fancy clothes, no dancing. Just a mama, a grandma and a little baby, all skin and bones, his lip and palate split wide, his future hanging in the balance. With them was a nurse, who I later learned works at the orphanage where Francois' mama was planning to leave him. She didn't want a broken baby, but the someone had heard that the ship was coming, convinced her that there was another way.

I took him in my arms, his little scrawny legs hanging out the bottom of the damp piece of cloth he was wrapped in. I buried my nose in the cloud of his hair, black and curly and softer than anything I've felt before, and I breathed deep before handing him over to our feeding program nurse who was going to be overseeing his care.

I wanted the drums, then. I wanted the handkerchiefs waving in the air and the ladies dancing in their finest African clothes. I wanted the whole world to know that here on our dock, a mama was choosing life for her baby. But they just climbed into a Land Rover in the gathering dusk, heading to the off-ship house where he'll stay until the wards are open.

Wednesday, February 10. 2010

The ship has arrived in Lomé, Togo, much to the delight of everyone concerned. I've got to head to a country briefing in about five minutes, so for now, I'll leave you with just the knowledge that we've made it here safely.

Later I'll tell all about it. How I almost started crying when I heard the African worship songs being belted from rusty trombones on the dock. How I've already sweated more in one morning than in the last two months combined.

Monday, June 1. 2009

I stepped off the plane in Cotonou last night and was overwhelmed by the sheer familiarity of the smell. The warm air touched my cheek like an old friend and I couldn't help smiling and breathing deep; surrounded by body odor and humidity and the faint hint of mothballs from best suits donned for the flight, I knew that I was home.

I wedged myself into the crowd at the baggage claim, threw elbows like the best of them and managed to reclaim my things. I smiled my way through customs, offering the occasional French phrase when my courage was right. Bonsoir seemed to do the trick, since my passport was stamped, my bags were waved through and I was propelled with the crowd through the doors and into a hall filled with brown faces, colourful cloths and a small contingent of Yovos. The white people were my friends, Liz and Sandra and Suey, and after a few hugs and several small shrieks of pure joy, we were settled happily into our Landrover, headed home through the streets of Cotonou.

Home. The feeling only got stronger when I saw the lights of the ship, pulled up alongside and made my way up the gangway. I was home. Friends from my Gateway course met me in reception, helped carry my bags, pulled out food to make me a grilled cheese, and let me shriek a few more times when I saw that they had made our bed for us, started unpacking the myriad things I had scattered across the ship, decorated our door, welcomed us home.

So I'm sitting here on the very same computer I used last year to write my first blog entry from Liberia. The floor is still moving underneath my feet, but more than last year, and the view from the porthole next to me is of an unfamiliar port and unfamiliar ships and unfamiliar waters.

Friday, December 19. 2008

I was awake before six this morning, lying in my bed and feeling the barely-perceptible rock of the ship begin to summon the day’s familiar nausea. The tone of the overhead announcement sounded and I tensed, not quite able to shed the past year’s duties as an EMT even though I’m off the team until I come back for Benin. For those on deck, please no flash photography. It came back with a rush, then. The captain’s announcement at last night’s meeting that the pilot would be coming on board promptly at 0600 to guide us to a berth. Going to sleep feeling for all the world like I was five again and it was the night before my family started the five hundred mile drive to Toronto before the sun had risen.

I shrugged into my clothes and stepped out into the cool, damp air to be greeted not by the familiar wind and darkness, but by a fairyland of lights. I blinked, but they stayed lit, shining through the night to guide us into port. The ship began its slow crawl towards the dock, the lights beginning to distinguish themselves as houses and Christmas trees and street lamps. I saw a man standing on the end of the dock, illuminated by the headlights of his car. He stood straight-backed, a trumpet in his hands, and as we threw out the mooring lines the simple, clear notes of Away in a Manger floated back across the water to where we stood at the rail.

I had to swallow hard just then and make some offhand comment about how insane it was to actually be able to see my breath or else the whole ship would have seen me break down right there on deck seven. Because it finally hit me; I just realized that we actually left Liberia.

It seems insane, after a week of sailing away from West Africa, that I can only just now comprehend the fact that we left. I kept staring at those lights, brighter than all of Liberia, and all I wanted was to see the dim outline of the Ducor on top of the hill. And now that day has come and the mountains are draped in shadows and sun and all around me civilization grinds unceasingly on, all I want is our wide-open port, dotted with canoes and sunken ships.

It’s dinner-time, and I have yet to step foot outside the ship. Granted, that’s partly because I’m on duty and carrying the pager limits me to a pretty small radius, but the truth is that I’m scared. I’m scared that stepping onto Spanish soil will finally mean that I’m not in Africa anymore, that I’ve left Liberia forever, and I’m just not ready to do that.

I’m hiding behind the steel hull of my ship, because the longer I stay here, the longer I can pretend that I’ll look out the portholes and see my beloved third world.

Sunday, February 10. 2008

It's killing me not to have photos to share with you all, but as I haven't yet gotten my own password, I can't get my computer onto the internet. And I don't have time for the thousands of words it would take to describe what a few pictures would be more than able to. How about thumbnail sketches instead?

The ship is enormous. We easily dwarf all the other ships in port here, especially the four or five wrecks, bits of their unfortunate hulls just visible scattered throughout the harbour. My cabin is shared with four other girls (a fifth will make us an even six on Friday). We hail from England, New Zealand, Sweden, the Netherlands and Jersey. Everything I own seems to be stuck to the wall with magnets now. The only way I know where I live is that the floor on my deck is green. When all else fails, I find a set of stairs and go up and down, up and down until I'm greeted by that familiar green. Strange to think that my cabin is just a few steps away from an ICU, because deck three is also the hospital.

Yesterday, I walked to the market with one of my roommates and a few other girls. I am eternally grateful that my first experience in Africa was in the bush, because I know that not everywhere is this dirty. Joseph was right though- I may not be in Sierra Leone, but this is war poverty, too, and it's so different from the bush. People lined the sides of the road, life for sale spread out on benches or cloths in front of them. A heavily pregnant woman paused her work as we passed, only to bend down again and continue pouring gasoline into large glass jars. Small children with impossibly large loads on their head wove their way through the crowd and piles of garbage, one hand clutching a stack of liberian dollars (LD), the other alternately waving to the white girls and gently steadying their wares. Battered yellow Nissan taxis bucked and honked, picking up passengers until their back bumpers (if they still had one) rested on the ground. Mothers wrapped in brightly coloured lappas carried small babies on their backs. The babies were bundled, presumably against the cold, although my own shirt clung damply to my back and the sweat ran down the back of my legs to form mud from the dirt on my feet. Everywhere, men called out. "White girl, you fine! I want to marry you! I will come to America!"

Today I napped because I still wasn't feeling like a real person. Hours of travel and too many new faces had combined to leave me feeling like I was in an extended dream. When I woke up, the most natural thing in the world was to join some new friends for a half hour drive in the back of a land cruiser to the beach. (Interesting side note: God must really want me here, because I'm the one who gets sick in the back of a minivan on an American highway. Today I sat sideways, looking backwards in ninety degree heat on roads so rutted that we looked drunk as we drove to avoid the potholes and felt not a touch of nausea. There's hope for me yet!) Next to the road on the way to the beach stands the shell of an old building. Before the war, it was the bustling five-star Hotel Africa. Now it's nothing but concrete, roof gone, open to the sun and rain. Heartbreaking to think that Liberia was once the gold standard, the country that all other African countries wanted to emulate.

In the midst of all this, God is so good to me. Last night we had a time of worship in the ship lounge (I'm headed there in a few mintues for a church service). We sat in a circle, again, a motley crew collected from the ends of the world. We sang and prayed together. At the end, the girl leading took out her Bible and opened to Isaiah. Chapter 58. "If you pour out your heart," she read, and I dissolved into tears. I know God wants me here. I was confident of His leading when I got on the plane on Thursday. While I'm often overwhelmed by the idea that I won't be home for a year, I am sure that this is where He has led me. So why did He give me yet another proof? Why, on my first night in Liberia, did someone read the very verse that He used to call me here? Because He loves me. Wholly and unreservedly. And I'm starting to realize that He will never tire of showing me that.

Saturday, February 9. 2008

I'm sitting in the internet cafe on board the M/V Africa Mercy. The floor is moving ever so slightly beneath my chair. No pictures yet, but I promise I'll give you a visual as soon as possible. I'm oddly at ease right now. No one in the goup I came with yesterday is staying as long as I plan to. I can't find my way around. I'm sleep-deprived. Nothing feels normal, nothing feels familiar.

welcome!

I'm Ali, wife to Phil and mama to Zoe and Ethan. We spent the past 6 years living and working with Mercy Ships on board the world's largest non-governmental hospital ship, the M/V Africa Mercy, as nurse, electrician, and ship's baby respectively. On board the ship, we worked with a team of volunteers from over thirty different countries, providing free surgical care and healthcare development, bringing hope and healing to the forgotten poor in West and Central Africa.

In March of 2014, during a routine ultrasound, we found out that our son, Ethan, has a four-in-a-million condition known as heterotaxy. He has major congenital heart defects, and had his first open heart surgery before he was a week old. Although the future for our son and our family is uncertain, we are more than ever convinced that God will be faithful to lead and guide us through this new season the same way He has in the past.(I've had a big problem with spam comments around here and literally don't have the time to sort through all of them, so comments on all entries before Ethan's story began have been turned off to keep the numbers down. I moderate all comments on new entries, so don't worry if yours doesn't show up right away. If it won't let you post, please e-mail me at alirae[at]quist[dot]ca. I love hearing from you!)

ali (that's me!)

phil

zoe rae

ethan vikash

ethan's story

Due on the Fourth of July and born on Canada Day, Ethan has given us so much to celebrate. He had his first surgery when he was six days old and amazed the doctors by being ready to go home before he reached the two week mark. Heterotaxy can affect every organ system, but so far Ethan seems to have escaped some of the common complications. While his heart has a number of complex defects, it's working well so far. His intestines actually formed correctly, and his lungs and kidneys are all functioning well. He does have at least five spleens, and it's assumed that they do not function, so his immune system is most likely compromised; he will most likely be taking daily antibiotics for his whole life.

Here are a few links that might be helpful, since the medical side of things can get pretty confusing with a heart this special. The surgeries listed for each of his heart conditions don't necessarily apply in our case, since we have to look at the big picture, not just each individual defect; we're still waiting to see how his heart grows before we decide what the next step, which will probably taking place between 3-6 months, will be.